


Not Nothing

by pullthesteeringwheel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Can be read as pre-slash, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Self-Harm, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26777719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pullthesteeringwheel/pseuds/pullthesteeringwheel
Summary: Derek appears in Stiles' bedroom while he's going to town on himself, and Stiles really wishes that was a euphemism for jerking off.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	Not Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn't take place at any particular point in canon, but in my head, it's some time in season 3a.
> 
> Obvious triggers for self-harm. It's not very graphic, but there are descriptions of blood.

When Derek materializes out of the ether, Stiles swears and jumps off his bed, clumsily and not at all subtly shoving his razor blade into the drawer in his nightstand before finding and pulling on the nearest hoodie, which is, of course, on the other side of the room. 

He gives Derek what is definitely not a convincing smile. “Hey, Derek,” he says, the crack in his voice not helping him seem any more believable. He crosses his arms, uncrosses them, then crosses them again, hyper-aware of the blood that's warm and sticky on his skin under his sleeve. “What’s—what’s up, man? What can I do for your wolvliness on this… fine… evening?” The faux-cheeriness fades out of his voice as Derek just stands there with his disapproving werewolf eyebrows of judgment, watching him attempt to bullshit his way out of this. And failing _miserably._

The silence stretches, taut like a rubber band about to snap, and then, 

“Really?” is what Derek finally says, voice flat. 

“It's not what it looks like?” Stiles tries, without much hope. 

Derek sighs and stalks over to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer and turning back to face Stiles after only a second, holding the small piece of metal up like it's some sort of smoking gun. “You mean, this? Because it looks to me like a razor blade.”

“Wow, ten points to Gryffindor.” 

“You're cutting yourself.”

“Is that supposed to be a question?”

“ _Stiles,_ ” Derek growls, his patience clearly running out.

Stiles is, unfortunately, at the end of his own rope, and he snaps, “What the hell do you want me to say?”

He's not an idiot; he knew he wouldn't be able to keep it hidden forever. He knew someone would find out eventually, but he didn't expect eventually to be tonight, and he definitely didn't expect that someone to be _Derek._

Derek, who’s standing there with Stiles’ razor blade in his hand, his nostrils flaring as he stares Stiles down with dark eyes. “I want you to tell me what made you think doing this to yourself was a good idea.”

Stiles snorts. It had to be Derek fucking Hale, didn't it? “Gee, Derek, I don't know! I guess I just got bored and thought it sounded like a fun way to spend the evening!”

Derek is suddenly no longer on the other side of the room, but right in front of Stiles, gripping the front of his hoodie in a tight fist. “Cut the bullshit,” he says, “and tell me the truth.”

“Oh, so now you're gonna what, exactly? _Threaten_ me into sharing my feelings? Is this how Derek Hale does heart-to-hearts?” 

Derek frowns and loosens his grip, but he doesn't let go completely. 

“Look,” Stiles sighs, “it's not a big deal, okay? So why don't you just take your werewolf ass on home, and we can pretend this never happened. Sound good?”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, that's definitely not happening.”

“Derek—”

“I’ll leave,” Derek interrupts, “when I know that you're okay and you won't hurt yourself. Until then, I don't feel comfortable leaving you alone.”

“Jesus, Derek, it's not like I’m gonna off myself the second you're gone.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Stiles, just because you're not in imminent mortal danger doesn't mean you don't need help. Now—” he gives Stiles’ hoodie a tug. “Take this off.”

Stiles does nothing but study Derek’s face for a long moment, which is strangely calm as he just watches Stiles right back, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Sighing, Stiles closes his eyes, one last moment of nervous hesitation before he decides to bite the bullet and pulls his hoodie off over his head, tossing it in the direction of his laundry basket but not bothering to look to see if it made it in. 

The blood on his skin is already drying, flaky and dark, but some of it is still wet, and there's a lot of it. Not that he's bleeding more than he usually does, but he generally prefers to soak up the blood with tissues or something rather than just free-bleeding all over himself. “God, that's gross,” he mumbles, like an apology. 

He doesn't look at Derek until he takes Stiles’ wrist in his hand, gentle, careful, as he inspects it. “Come on,” Derek says, letting go of his wrist and placing a hand on his shoulder, herding Stiles in the direction of the door, Derek behind him. “We’ll clean you up in the bathroom.”

Dad’s at work and won't be home until morning, but Derek still closes the bathroom door behind them, and the bathroom suddenly feels much smaller. When Derek asks, Stiles tells him where the first-aid kit is as he takes a dark washcloth out of the cabinet. 

“Hop up,” Derek says, nodding at the countertop while he runs the faucet, soaking the washcloth Stiles handed him in warm water and wringing it out.

Stiles obeys, and it must really be a crisis because he remains completely silent as Derek cleans the blood off his arm. What could he possibly say in this situation that wouldn't make it a thousand times shittier than it already is? If he opens his mouth, there's no telling what will come out, and he’d really rather not find out. 

For what is probably the first time in history, it's Derek that breaks the silence. “So,” he says, looking up at Stiles as he puts the washcloth in the sink. “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”

Stiles swallows and looks down at his hands, which proves to be a bad decision when his eyes inevitably travel up his wrist. All the blood is gone, but the latest additions to his (extensive) scar collection are a bright, angry red, in stark contrast to his pale skin. And there are the other cuts, the ones that aren't from tonight but are still clearly and visibly recent, in different stages of healing. Some are dark red and scabbed, and some are shiny and purple, and others are a dark, dull pink. None of them have faded to white quite yet. 

“No, but you're gonna make me, anyway, aren't you?” he finally mutters.

Derek sighs and reaches for the first aid kit. “I'm trying to help you, Stiles.”

“Help I don't want and never asked for,” Stiles says bitterly, as Derek begins disinfecting the cuts. He makes a great effort not to wince. 

“Yeah, because you're an idiot. You might not want help, but you clearly need it.”

“But, why does it have to be _you?_ ” Stiles is only slightly embarrassed by the petulant whine in his voice. 

Derek looks at him calmly, the rubbing alcohol-soaked cotton ball hovering over Stiles’ wrist. Stiles resists the urge to gulp. “You can always tell someone else if that's what you want. I'm sure your dad wouldn't waste a second getting you some help. Or Melissa, if you'd rather, or, hell, even Deaton—” 

“Okay, okay, point made, you can shut up now,” Stiles cuts him off. 

Derek’s shoulders deflate, just a little bit, before he says, “If you _did_ want to tell someone else, though, I want you to know that you wouldn't have to do it alone. I’ll be right there with you if you want me to be. If it makes it any easier for you.”

Stiles opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. There's a strange bite of guilt somewhere inside him, sour and confusing, but even more confusing is the warmth that blooms in his chest. “You…” is what he eventually manages to say, intelligent as ever. 

Derek raises an eyebrow, barely glancing up from the antibiotic ointment he's applying to Stiles’ wrist. “Me, what?”

 _You care. You really, actually care. Since when do you care?_

Stiles shakes his head. “Uh, nothing. Nothing.” Derek frowns, and Stiles clears his throat, continuing on before Derek can push. “I don't want to tell anyone else. Not anytime soon.” Derek nods, and Stiles can't help from asking, “You aren't gonna tell anyone, are you?”

“I won't say anything. It's not my place.”

“Thanks,” Stiles breathes out in relief.

Derek gives him something that's not quite a smile and only lasts for a flicker of a moment before his expression turns serious, his eyes boring into Stiles’. “But, you need to talk to me, Stiles. I need to know what’s going on and why you're doing this to yourself.” There's an edge of… _something_ in his voice, something that can't possibly be desperation. Concern, maybe? Probably not. Tension? Sure, tension. That works. 

That quiet, awestruck voice is still rambling on in the back of his head, repeating variations of _you care you care you care why do you care—_

Stiles ignores it. 

“Please,” Derek says, and Stiles is pretty sure this is the first time he's ever heard the bastard beg. 

“Fuck my life,” he mutters, his eyes closed. When he opens them again, Derek is just standing there watching him, a roll of gauze in hands and, yep, that's definitely concern in his eyes. “Since when are we friends?” he hears himself ask. 

Unexpectedly, Derek huffs a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth curling. There's still something sad in his eyes. “We've never had to be friends to save each other’s lives.”

Something twists sharply in Stiles’ gut. “I'm not—my life isn't in danger.” Derek keeps looking at him with those stupid sad eyes and Stiles says, “Derek, it's _not_ , I swear it's not. Listen to my heartbeat, you know I'm telling the truth!”

Derek sighs and finally starts wrapping the gauze around Stiles’ wrist. “You might believe it, but that doesn't make it true.”

“Derek—”

“You really have no fucking idea how dangerous this is, do you?” Derek interrupts, sadness giving way to anger. Stiles blinks in surprise, and Derek shakes his head, his jaw clenched. “You don't heal the way the rest of us do, Stiles. All it takes is one wrong move, one slip, one cut that goes just a _little_ too deep, and you're dead.”

“Oh, so that's what this is about?” Stiles asks, this whole bizarre situation he's in finally sharpening into focus, Derek’s behavior finally making sense. “Because I'm human, and I'm so weak and fragile, like some delicate little daisy, that's what’s got you so freaked?”

Derek’s eyebrows furrow as he looks at Stiles like he’s lost his mind. “No, Stiles,” he says, in a tone of voice that implies Stiles is missing something obvious, “I'm ‘freaked’ because you are _cutting yourself_.” The way he exaggeratedly enunciates the syllables of the last two words makes Stiles want to deck him. “And the fact that you can't seem to understand why I might be concerned to find out that you're routinely _slicing yourself open_ with a _fucking razor blade_ is not very reassuring!” 

“Don't _talk to me_ like I'm fucking _stupid!_ ” Stiles yells. “I know how dangerous it is, okay? Believe me, I know! What I don't know is why you care!”

Derek’s face twists, before he sighs, his eyes falling closed. “I know what you think of me, Stiles—you've obviously decided I'm some kind of villain—but, believe it or not, I don't actually like the thought of you being in pain.” 

He sounds so tired, so defeated all of a sudden, and that bite of guilt Stiles felt earlier comes back with a vengeance, and this time it feels more like a sucker punch. 

“Derek…” he says, quietly, but isn't sure what to say next. 

Derek’s eyes lock onto Stiles’, and Stiles can't look away. “Just let me help you, Stiles. Please, just let me help you.”

Stiles nods, still unable to look away. “Okay,” he says, voice soft.

Derek squeezes his hand before breaking their staring contest and taking half a step back, putting away the first-aid supplies. Stiles hadn't even noticed that Derek had finished with his wrist, which is now wrapped in clean white bandages. He slides down off the counter, surprised to discover that his ass is slightly numb, and then he just stands there, uncertain, as Derek gets rid of all the remaining evidence of the fun night they've had together. 

“You can go wait in your room if you want,” Derek says. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Stiles says, and Derek steps out of the way so Stiles can pass. Once in his bedroom, Stiles starts pacing and doesn't stop until Derek walks in.

“I started doing it a couple of months ago. Or, just under a couple of months, anyway,” he blurts out before Derek has even closed the door all the way. 

Derek nods slowly, like he's filing the information away. 

“I, um.” He takes a shaky breath, not looking at Derek. “I just—I just felt so _overwhelmed_ and it was like I never even got a second to _breathe_ , you know? And, and I couldn't _sleep_ , and when I did, I would have these nightmares, and, and, and everything is just _too much_ , all the time, and I'm, I'm _tired_ , God, Derek, I'm so fucking tired, and I, and I, I just want to stop feeling like this, I just want it to stop, I just—”

“Stiles,” Derek says, and there are hands on Stiles’ shoulders, and he tries to pull some air into his lungs, but a sob escapes him instead, and he isn't sure if Derek pulled him in or if he leaned forward on his own, but he's suddenly got his face buried in Derek’s shoulder, and they've got their arms wrapped securely around each other. “It's okay, you're okay,” Derek is saying quietly, as Stiles manages to get his lungs in working order again. 

“What’s wrong with me?” Stiles asks softly, tiredly. 

“Nothing,” Derek says immediately, and Stiles snorts. Liar. Derek sighs. “Come here,” he says, disentangling himself and sitting on the edge of Stiles’ bed. Stiles sinks down next to him, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, and Derek lays a hand on Stiles’ back, rubbing wide, slow circles. “Stiles, I'm not even close to qualified to give you the kind of answers you need. You know that. But, what I can tell you is that what you're going through is really, really serious. A lot more serious than a case of teen angst. People that are… _healthy_ don't want to hurt themselves. It's not anything that's wrong with you, it's just that you're sick.” Stiles snorts again, and Derek flicks him. “Not _that_ kind of sick. And we’re gonna get you better, you hear me?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah. I hear you,” he says, admittedly without much conviction.

“Hey,” Derek says. “I mean it.”

“Derek…” Stiles sighs. “I only started cutting recently, but I've felt this way for a long time. A really long time.”

“That doesn't mean you can't get better,” Derek says. And then, a moment later, “Why have you never told anyone?”

Stiles shrugs. “I didn't want anyone to know,” he says simply. “My dad, he… he has enough to deal with already. I didn't want him to feel like he has to worry about me, you know?”

There's a wrinkle between Derek’s eyebrows. He nods, slowly. 

Stiles says, “Really? Because you look kinda lost.”

“No, I—what you're saying makes sense, I just… it's a lot different, from how my family was. We didn't hide that kind of thing. Never felt any need to.”

Stiles nods, not sure what to say. Derek doesn't talk about his family often, and Stiles feels like he should be careful with this moment, or else he’ll shatter it like glass. 

“Sounds like a good family,” he eventually says. 

Derek gives him a crooked, sad smile. “Yeah. They were. And so is yours. There's nothing your dad wouldn't do for you, Stiles.”

“Yeah, I _know_. That's why I don't want to get him all worked up over nothing.”

“It's not n—” Derek starts, sternly, before Stiles cuts him off. 

“Not nothing, it's very serious, I got it, thanks.”

Derek huffs. 

“Really, though,” Stiles says quietly, after a short stretch of silence. “Thanks. For—tonight. You know. Everything.”

“Of course, Stiles,” Derek says earnestly. “I'm just glad I was here to help you.”

“I was a dick to you.”

Derek shrugs. “You're hurting,” he says, like it's as simple as that.

“That doesn't mean it's okay for me to take it out on you,” he argues. 

“I can handle it,” Derek says dismissively. A beat, and then he says, “Stiles,” but falls silent, biting his lip as he thinks over whatever it is he wants to say. Finally, he says, slowly, seriously, “Stiles, I need you to believe me when I tell you that I'm here for you. If there's anything you need, anything I can do to help, please tell me. No matter what. Helping you is not a burden. It's not a chore. I _want_ to help you because I want you to be okay. Okay?”

Stiles swallows, but it does nothing for the sudden dryness in his throat. “Okay,” he says. 

“And…” Derek’s voice is ever-so-slightly nervous, as the hand he has on Stiles’ back slides over to his shoulder, pulling Stiles in closer against Derek’s side as his free hand takes Stiles’. “When you… when you feel like hurting yourself, I want you to call me. Can you do that?”

Stiles lets his head fall against Derek’s shoulder, rolling his lips between his teeth. “I don't know if I can make that promise,” he says honestly. “I can try, but… some nights are worse than others.” 

”I understand. Just don't forget that you're not alone. If you need me, I'm there.”

Stiles nods. “Thanks,” he says sleepily. Derek’s shoulder is unfairly comfy, and exhaustion is suddenly hitting Stiles like a truck. “Thanks for being so nice to me. It's nice, you being nice. Weird, but nice.”

He feels Derek’s laugh more than hears it. “I’ll keep that in mind.” His fingers absently trace patterns across Stiles’ shoulders as he says, “You should get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, but he doesn't move. 

“I can stay, if you want me to.”

“You don't have to if you don't want to. I mean, I want you to, but only if you want to, too. Do you? Want to?”

Once again, he feels Derek’s chest rumble with laughter. Stiles smiles against him. “I want to,” he says. 

“Good,” Stiles says. “Come on, then.” He pats Derek on the chest and climbs under the covers, Derek following suit after he takes off his boots, then his jeans. Stiles has just enough energy left to wolf-whistle, laughing when Derek rolls his eyes. 

“You're such an idiot,” Derek says as he turns out the light, but his voice is soft, and Stiles knows he's smiling.

When Derek is finally settled into the bed, Stiles scoots closer, laying his cheek on Derek’s shoulder. “This is so weird,” he mumbles. “But, weirdly _not_ weird, at the same time.”

“Go to sleep, Stiles,” Derek says.

“Hmm,” Stiles responds, and he doesn't argue. He just goes to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at like 2am last night (full moon, amiright?) so I apologize for any mistakes and whatnot. Constructive criticism is welcomed, but please do keep in mind that if you're rude and disrespectful you are <3 ugly.


End file.
